All Who Wander
by Spiritus Scriptor
Summary: Bridget Davis is the very definition of average. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens to this girl...Until she finds herself stuck in Middle-Earth with more problems than just thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit to contend with. No. She can't even communicate with them, and the results nearly frighten her to death.
1. Chapter 1

**I can't believe I'm starting ANOTHER one. Ugh. While I've got two in the works already, no less. And I'm uploading this at 2 am, because what the hell. I don't need sleep or have a French exam tomorrow morning to study for. I'm beginning to think I'm more than a little ADD. And it's completely caffeine-induced, as usual. **

**This story is one of those Mary-Sue-Crashes-Into-Middle-Earth things that, let's be honest, I despise. And okay, my OC may or may not be roughly based on me at the age of fifteen, but is not a Mary Sue. At least, I hope it doesn't turn out that way. **

**So I was thinking. Because my brain is weird and it does that. And I came up with the idea of a language barrier (since I have my nose in a French textbook, and all). Because whatever the common language is in Middle-Earth, it probably isn't English. I mean, speaking in terms of if Middle-Earth actually existed. **

**This is why I shouldn't write at 2 am. **

* * *

Not all those who wander are lost.

But some are.

My name is Bridget Davis. An ordinary name for an ordinary girl. I'm not much to notice, middling height, mousy hair, green eyes. Fairly average, you'd say. That's what I thought too, until the extraordinary happened. Quite frankly, I'm surprised I lived to tell the tale. But that's at the end of my story, and as we all know, stories must start from the beginning.

I've read enough smutty magazines and trashy romance novels and seen enough soap operas—believe me, not my idea—to be familiar with the concept of the coma-fantasy-alternate-universe trope. I hate it. Fortunately, my story isn't a coma fantasy. I hope. Because if it is, I never woke up. I'm still here—wherever _here_ is.

I live, or I should say, _lived_, in a relatively small town where the streets are narrow, the buildings are old, and everyone knows each other. I lived alone in an apartment above a bookstore. Needless to say, I was a frequent visitor. This particular day started out like any other—I went out for a coffee and to get a new book. Come to think of it, there's more to me than just my bland looks. I was a total bookworm and proud of it. I was, unfortunately, very particular about which books I read. That day I was scoping out any classics I hadn't read yet and decided on _Fahrenheit 451_, as utopian fiction was my favorite genre. Looking back now, I wish I would have read more fantasy. It would have helped me in the long run.

I was leaving the bookstore—in fact, I had just stepped out of the door. It was raining. I stepped in a puddle. And that was the last thing I remember of my life prior to the Adventure, as I now call it.

If I have to come up with a theory as to how I got here (I don't know where here is, you see), I'm going to go with the wormhole theory. I didn't pass out—it was like I was vacuumed through to some other dimension and crash landed in another galaxy, at the very least, if not a parallel universe. All I saw was blackness and spots, like driving in a blizzard.

And then I landed on my side on the floor of a dirty tavern.

Rubbing my shoulder, I struggled to my feet. I had crashed down in front of a table of no less than thirteen men. Thirteen very short, hairy men. Thirteen _dwarves_, for God's sake. One of them said something. I didn't understand a word, just shook my head. The dwarves leaned in over the table and muttered to each other in a strange language, with the occasional point at me.

"Balin," said one, gesturing to himself.

"B...Bridget." I tapped my chest in reply.

He stared back at me, sizing me up, though I stood a good foot or more above him, and then made an eating gesture and shrugged, a questioning look at me. I shook my head again.

Another dwarf pulled a chair up from another table and motioned that I should sit. I complied, and a mug of ale was passed to me. Against my better judgment, I drank some. I felt fine, but it was _bitter_, more so than anything I'd ever had.

The dwarves introduced themselves to me via pointing to themselves and stating their names. There was Balin, who had a white, forked beared, Dwalin, massive and with scalp tattoos. Then came the trio of Dori, Nori, and Ori, all of whom had the most complicated braids I'd ever seen. Oin and Gloin had the largest beards. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur—One with something protruding from his forehead, one with a cheeky grin, and one excessively fat. And last were Fili and Kili, the youngest and most jovial looking. But there was one more at the end of the table I hadn't seen. Black hair just starting to gray, blue eyes, and a glare that could freeze over hell. His name was Thorin, the last part of his name I couldn't make out. It had something to do with the wooden armguard he carried; he tapped on it to indicate his surname. I didn't really care to know his name, or who he was. He terrified me. He was somehow more imposing than Dwalin, who carried two battle axes slung over his back.

Balin, the designated speaker, waved his arms to indicate a wide space. "Bree," he said. Then, motioning to the party, he said, "Ered Luin." Then he pointed to me. I guessed he was asking where I was from.

"Nowhere," I said evasively. They shook their heads.

Just then a tall grey form swept into view with a small barefoot man following behind him. Balin tugged the grey man's sleeve and spoke rapidly, pointing to me. The grey man—a wizard, I gathered, by the pointed hat and staff, turned to me and asked me something in the same language the dwarves had used. I shook my head. He tried another. And another. Head shake after head shake, he eventually gave up and presumably told the group as much. Turning back to me, he pointed to himself and said, "Gandalf."

The smaller man stuck his hand out and I took it, shaking it lightly. "Bilbo Baggins" was his name. Evidently, the fact that I knew what a handshake was for gave them some insight. For a few minutes, they talked among themselves and came to a conclusion that involved me. Bofur, the only dwarf with a hat, took my hand and started leading me away with the rest of them. Without thinking, I slapped his hand away and tried to run. But Dwalin caught me and hustled me outside, where a group of ponies were waiting tethered to a hitching post. I tried to protest, but my pleas fell on deaf ears as I found myself sidesaddle on a pony in front of Bilbo Baggins. I was glad it was him, at least, and not any of the others.

From there we rode out in the bright morning sunlight, I with no clue where I was, where we were going, or what was to become of me.

* * *

"_Are you all right, Miss?" Balin asked. She didn't seem to understand. After some discussion, we decided to introduce ourselves and offer our assistance. A woman shouldn't be in a place like this. What was she doing here? We offered her food and drink, which she refused and then took, instantly regretting it. _

"_She thinks we're poisoning her," Gloin said. _

"_Well, we're a group of men in a seedy tavern somewhere she shouldn't be in the first place," said Dori. "Of course she does!"_

"_What should we do?" asked Ori nervously, offering the girl a kind smile. _

"_Ask Gandalf, when he gets back here with Baggins." grunted Dwalin. _

_When Gandalf returned with the hobbit, he questioned her in every language known in Middle Earth. Westron hadn't worked, so he tried Elvish, Khuzdul, Ent-speak and some crude Orc language. She didn't answer to any. "Her dialect is similar to those of Rohan," he told us. "Though her accent is quite unfamiliar. Perhaps she speaks a long forgotten ancient language."_

"_If that's so, why would she know it?" Thorin sneered. Gandalf merely shrugged sheepishly. _

"_Well, we can't leave her here. Bree is no place for a lady."_

_I tried to kindly lead her outside, and received a slap for my troubles as she broke away and ran. "Dwalin, stop her!" I called. He did, and frog-marched her to a pony, where we got her settled as best we could with Bilbo behind her. We figured she'd be less frightened that way. _

_All the same, I couldn't imagine what the girl must have been thinking as we began our journey. That we were leading her to her death…or worse._

* * *

**Okay, so yeah. That just happened. **

**Tell me what you think! :)**

**"Not all those who wander are lost" is Tolkien's quote, not mine. If I were that profound I wouldn't be writing fan fiction. **

** Yay.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Whew...finally done with most of my research for a term paper and just got done with midterms...I should probably sleep, but my brain won't let me...**

**I actually wrote this awhile ago and added in the Khuzdul and Westron later. Try as I might, I can't find much information on Westron, so you might only see it in this chapter. I came across the Dwarrow Scholar blog (?) awhile ago, so I have them teaching Bridget Khuzdul. I know that's completely uncharacteristic as it's supposed to be a secret language, but there's only so much I can do with a language barrier and limited info. **

**If anyone knows of a better Khuzdul or Westron translator or dictionary, let me know! I'd really appreciate the help!**

* * *

As we trudged on wearily, it began to rain. I wasn't equipped with any sort of rain gear whatsoever, and so was soaked within minutes. Noticing my predicament, Bilbo removed his cloak and handed it to me. I wanted to refuse, but I was so cold already that I couldn't muster more than a "thank you" as I took it from him.

"Thank you?" he repeated uncertainly, trying to get a grasp of my language. Then he said something else I didn't understand.

Secretly, I was glad of the rain and the large hood that shielded my face. It allowed me to hide the tears that were steadily dripping from my eyes. I was surprised I hadn't burst into tears when I first landed, but it took a while for the shock to wear off. Now I was all alone surrounded by people, unable to make myself understood. Where would they take me? Would I ever get home again? I tried not to make a sound, but soon I felt a small hand on my back and heard my companion offering words of what I took to be comfort. He was all right, at least. I still didn't know about the others. They talked and laughed and muttered all around me, but I had no clue of their intentions.

I was beginning to slip from the horse. I'd never ridden one, much less sidesaddle. I hung onto the saddle and tried to steady myself, but it only resulted in me tumbling off and falling into the mud. The caravan stopped and the brothers Fili and Kili dismounted to help me up and survey the damage. After making sure no harm was done, they helped me back into the saddle and—get this—_tied_ me there. I felt ever more the prisoner as the rope cut into my wrists and waist where it was tied. Thorin barked a gruff order and we started off again, not to stop until nightfall.

We stopped at the base of a cliff and settled near and old ruin of a house. Almost immediately, Gandalf and Thorin were engaged in an argument, and shortly after, Gandalf stormed off. I was instantly worried, as he seemed to be the more reasonable of the two. I had gathered that Thorin held some kind of leadership position and assumed that if Gandalf did not return, we would be under his command.

A fire was started, and the fat dwarf, Bombur, began preparing a meal. The others gathered around the fire, but I stayed far away, hoping they'd forget about me. It was not to be so. The youngest of one of the trios, Ori, came and found me. He had a book with him. Sitting down beside me, he opened it and held it so I could see. A runic map had been meticulously copied onto the page. He pointed to a spot in the west.

"Bree." Bree was the place where I'd landed, where they found me. Then he found another spot, far to the east, a solitary peak. "Erebor." He placed two of his fingers on the spot marked _Bree_ in runes and walked them across the map all the way to Erebor. Then he pointed to me, himself, and the company. I repeated his gestures questioningly.

"We are going there? You are taking me there?" I asked, knowing he wouldn't understand. He looked at me intensely for a moment and then pointed a finger in the air as an idea dawned on him. He drew a stick of sharpened charcoal from his pocket and began to draw. I could make out a human-like figure with long hair. Underneath he drew the insignia I had seen on Thorin's gear.

"Thorin?" I asked. Ori nodded, happy that I understood. Then he drew something that looked like a crown above Thorin's head. "He is a king?"

"Melhekh," he said, a strange, guttural sounding word. This, I later found out, was Khuzdul, a secret language of the dwarves. Which made it all the more strange that he was teaching it to me. I was, after all, an outsider. He drew figures representing the twelve others. Then he drew a circle around them, indicating that they all belonged together. "Arùyad." he said, and drew a drop of blood on the page.

"Blood brothers? Family?" I guessed out loud. At any rate, they were related somehow. And traveling to Erebor with their king. He continued drawing, another figure which I took to be Bilbo.

"Bilbo melekûn." He tapped his charcoal against the paper and continued drawing—a dragon. "Mahzakf," he continued, making slashing motions in the air, miming fighting with a sword. I had pieced together enough to understand that they were family of a king on a journey and for some reason needed a _melekûn_, in other words, Bilbo, to fight a dragon.

He continued drawing, a girl falling. Me. "Sudinh." He pointed to me.

"Bridget." I repeated my name.

In the midst of my lesson, someone had brought us food. I refused to touch mine, fearing I would be drugged. Ori dipped his spoon in my bowl to show me there was nothing to worry about. They weren't going to drug me. But why had they taken me with them? I decided to ask, in pantomime. He went back to his book and pointed to Bree, then mimed something unpleasant with his hands.

"Oh," I muttered, feeling embarrassed.

"Sud," he said. I had no clue what that meant, and he had no way to illustrate it. Instead, he drew Gandalf and indicated that it was ultimately his decision that I should come along, then pointed to a place on the map he called Rivendell. I assumed they were taking me there. At last he stood up and offered a hand to me, and led me to the fire where it was much warmer. The others nodded in greeting and some tried to muster friendly smiles. A few clapped me on the shoulder as I passed. Sitting down on a log, I tried not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. They didn't notice and kept right on talking. I wished Ori had left me alone. I was beginning to feel intensely uncomfortable. But I was glad at least for his helping me understand the situation. I wasn't in any danger. For now.

Bilbo smiled and came over to sit next to me. He motioned to Bofur, who joined us as well. Bofur began to speak rapidly in a language that was not what Ori had been teaching me. I tried to pick out individual words and sounds. Ori, who had also taken a place beside me, laughed out loud, while Bilbo gave him an uncharacteristically menacing look.

"Tud tunna?" Bofur asked, turning to me, shielding his eyes like he was looking for something.

"Look?" I asked, at the same time Bilbo began to object fiercely to whatever Bofur had said.

"Sôval phârë?" he asked Ori, who shook his head.

"Khuzdul," he corrected. Bofur looked stunned and said something I took to mean _don't tell Thorin_. Bombur came over and handed two bowls to Bilbo, who left, taking them to Fili and Kili who were guarding the ponies.

Bofur and Ori turned their attention back on me and talked over me, presumably _about_ me. I heard the word _Rivendell_ again, and wondered what such a place could be. I hoped it wasn't a slave market, or anything like that.

A few moments later, Fili tore through the brush and shouted urgently.

Little did I know, this would only be the first battle in my grand adventure.

* * *

I followed the dwarves down into a ravine and hid in the brush at the edge of the clearing. Three hulking monsters clad only in loincloths were swatting them like so many flies. They scampered around waving their swords and axes, and Fili managed an impressive commando roll-type maneuver under a thing's foot. I didn't know what had happened, and I watched in horror as the things rounded them up and commanded them to lay down their weapons. My newfound companions were tied into burlap sacks with naught but their heads free. Half went on the ground in a pile and the other half—Bofur and Ori included, I noticed—were tied to the spit over their fire.

I was frightened out of my wits, not only for them, but for me as well. If they were killed, I probably would be too. If not, I would surely starve to death in the wilderness. I didn't know how to hunt or gather, and was a million miles from anywhere. Not that that would have helped much either. I was a foreigner with no money. I was also female, which, according to Ori, was not a good thing to be in places like this. That was why they had taken me—to protect me from harm. Or so he said. I would probably fetch a good price at this Rivendell slave market if I were unscathed.

Their screams and pleas reached unearthly levels, and I covered my hands with my ears and sank to the ground. I was completely helpless, powerless to stop the behemoths and aid my comrades. I had never felt more insignificant in my life. I was shaking, my knees literally knocking as I crouched, unwilling to watch but unable to look away.

Suddenly the wizard appeared beside me, though he could not see me. Addressing the beasts, he cracked his staff against the rocks. A piercing, painful light erupted in the sky and the whatever-they-were turned to stone in rather undignified positions. The dwarves busied with untangling themselves and cutting each other loose. Trodding back up the hill defeatedly, they retreated back to their camp. I did not follow. Not yet.

My absence had not gone unnoticed, and they began calling for me in their grating accents.

"Bridget! Bridget!" I heard Ori and Bilbo calling.

However, it was Thorin who found me crouching in the weeds.

* * *

_Why had Ori taught her Khuzdul, of all things? Thorin would kill him if he ever found out he'd been teaching an outsider our secret language. I could only hope he never found out. But that depended on her not speaking. We still had no idea where she came from or why she was here. But Gandalf had been the one to insist we took her with us, maybe as far as Rivendell. He hoped Elrond would have some answers._

* * *

**I forgot whether or not I mentioned this in the first chapter, but the little italicized blurbs at the end are from Bofur's POV. Depending on how detailed I get with this story, I might alternate Bridget/Bofur chapters. **

**Translations**

**Khuzdul:**

**melhekh-king**

**aruyad-kin**

**melekun- (the) hobbit**

**mahzakf-defeat**

**sudinh- danger-lady**

**sud-danger**

**Westron:**

**tud/ tud tunna- watch, guard**

**Soval Phare- Common Speech**

* * *

Updates shouldn't be as slow now. Please review!


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